


The bird and the worm

by zickcantkill



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: AU, Body Horror, Eldritch, Gen, more like changing canon a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 05:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13564167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zickcantkill/pseuds/zickcantkill
Summary: "You cannot look at it without losing your sanity. You cannot look at it and believe you can regain your lost sanity."





	The bird and the worm

**Author's Note:**

> This is another drabble I wrote for and on my Nny rp blog on Tumblr. If you find any typos, forgive me. I did proofread this, but I might have missed typos and/or small mistakes because A) I'm human and B) I hate proofreading and end up always doing it faster than I should. Yay me!  
> The title of this drabble comes from the song of the same name by The Used, which I do suggest listening to while you're reading! If you usually listen to music while reading, that's it.  
> Thanks for passing by, and I hope you'll enjoy your reading!

It speaks. It is an inaudible language, words of a thousand dead and alive languages mixed all together in one, two, three, a hundred incoherent speeches screamed and whispered all together simultaneously. He does not hear it with his ears, but with his guts. _And how can you hear with your guts_ \- the thought forms in his brain, then flies out of his mouth, lingers in the air, smoke in the shape of words, then a tentacle pierces through it and it dissolves. 

There is a creature and it is bigger than he could ever fathom.

There is a creature and it is calling him with a thousand names in a thousand different alphabets and a thousand accents. Tongues and lips call him and he swears they are salivating on him, even if they are far from him. Grayish, translucent alien drops land on top of his head and start their journey down his short hair, his pulsing temples, his cold cheeks, his sharp chin – slimy rivers running on a mountain side. One movement of his hand would be enough to wipe them away, but he cannot move. Paralysis spreads in his muscles and tendons, turning flesh and bone into iron and stone. Someone ( _someone something someonething_ ) poured heaviness in his bones while he was not looking, while his eyes were staring at the monstrosity in front of and all around him.

Eyes blinking - a moment of darkness - and now it is towering over him, motionless and constantly moving. It sprung out of the wall and it is stretching its tentacles through the whole basement, filling every room, every hallway, every mouse and insect den and AND at the same time it stands - lies - floats - sits in front of him. Face to face, after years (was it years? Wasn’t it months or just weeks? Or maybe was his life until this very moment just a product of a night of endless, febrile and mad dreams?). Infinite pairs of eyes stare at him with hues of all colors, a few human, animal and alien heads turn to look at him. He is the show, they are the public; they are the horror circus, he is the spectator waiting to be swallowed by the jaws-like entrance of the big top. A mouse head squeaks at him, revealing human teeth in his mouth. Man’s eyes on a geometrical, spiky, reddish shape which can be barely called a face cry a dark, sticky liquid which would look like petrol, if only it did not stink like hatred. Those facial features are emotionless, but he feels its hunger. Its greed. Its wrath. Its and his sins. Feelings and thoughts which are not his press on the back of his head, trying to come in - to get out - to destroy what is left of his sanity and brain. His skull starts cracking under that pressure, and he is not sure if it is really happening or if he is only imaging it. This might as well be all a hallucination. He blinks and the creature disappears, leaving him alone with hundreds of empty cans stained in crimson and a wall painted in the same dark red human paint. He blinks again, and it is surrounding him, tentacles oscillating, suckers popping, wide eyes staring, pupils piercing through him like spines. It comes and it goes, it comes and it goes, as if it was able to bend reality to its will. Maybe it can. Maybe it really can.

_What the hell?_

You cannot look at it without losing your sanity. You cannot look at it and believe you can regain your lost sanity.

He is too many feet underground, yet he seems to know what is happening above him, in the house, in the rest of the world. He sees the darkness, the leftovers of an eldritch meal he unwillingly gave the starting signal to. No blood is shed, despite the gallons it demanded throughout the _weeksmonthsyears_. No corpses pile up in the streets, despite the hundreds  
( _hundredsdozens?_ )which fell on the sticky basement floor night after night. The apocalypse comes in silence, not with a bang, not with a whimper, and originates from such a noisy place. The world is silent – the room which might be at the center of the basement is not. He should be deaf by now, just like he should have died a thousand times before by sleep and food deprivation, by blood loss. You have defied physics once more, congratulations. You could write this down in your diary, if the world still existed, if it was not disintegrating right outside your house.

He cannot pinpoint the exact moment when it lies its hands – tentacles – tendrils on him. For all he knows, it could have never touched him. It could be just his brain playing one last final trick on him, one more hallucination, this time visual and not auditory, to say farewell before biding farewell and shutting completely down with a last cracking static noise. If it is a hallucination, it is fucking real. His disgust is real. The slimy tentacles wrapping around his ankles, wrists and waist are real. He suddenly feels the irresistible urge to throw up bile, piss, shit, his own intestines, lungs and heart all together, almost as if in the foolish hope to disgust it more and make it retreat. It would not work – no, it would not. He cannot throw up anyway. There is not anything to throw up anyway. When has he last eaten or drunk? When has he last pissed? When has he last felt as if his vital organs were still inside him, right where they are supposed to be?

When has he last felt whole?

One last coherent thought – one last question left without answer. The tentacles tighten their grasp at the same time, squeezing - ripping – cracking – and he hears it – he hears his flesh popping like an uncorked bottle – he sees his hands falling from his wrists, dead leaves of a dead tree – his feet following shortly after – his own body cut in two - the space between his legs and his torso filled by hundreds of tentacles – and he does not have a mouth to scream -

and when it has ended its abhorrent meal and darkness falls in the core of the basement which is now also the core of the world -

just before the curtains fall in front of his eyes, his own private guillotine -

just before, his very final thought -

his very final thought -

oh fuck -

where have all the stars gone?


End file.
